Take Me in Your Arms
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: The first night, Meg parties like there's no tomorrow, which, Sam assures her, there won't be, because Dean is going to hunt her down and send her straight back to Hell where she belongs. AU of Born Under a Bad Sign.
1. Chapter 1

**Take Me in Your Arms**

 _A/N: So I actually wrote this a few million years ago but I didn't like it so it just sat around as a work in progress. Now I've finally re-written it and, well, I like it better but I'm not sure I love it. Tell me what you think?_

 _Warnings: Drug use. Swearing._

XXX

Chapter One

The first night, Meg parties like there's no tomorrow, which, Sam assures her, there won't be, because Dean is going to hunt her down and send her straight back to Hell where she belongs and she is going to be so freaking _sorry_ that she messed with them, _fuck you, Meg, get the fuck out_.

' _Loosen up a little, Sammy, holy shit, you're so fucking annoying._ '

The club is a multi-coloured strobe light, thumping music and a crush of warm, tipsy bodies on the dance floor, a whirlwind made all the more confusing by Meg's attempts to shove him somewhere under the surface of his own body, a sensation that's frighteningly similar to being held underwater, everything muted and blurred. Time passes in jumps, snapshots of sweat-slicked skin, shots of liquor burning his throat, a dark haired girl's spicy perfume, and cigarette smoke filling his lungs.

Meg drinks and dances, trades twenty dollar bills with a skinny college kid in a dark corner by the bathrooms. Blinks and Sam's on his knees in a toilet stall. Meg holds one of his nostrils shut with his finger and snorts white powder from the toilet lid through a rolled up bank note into the other.

Sam's never done drugs before, aside from a couple of rebellious joints smoked under the bleachers in high school. Weed was slow and soft and not like this at all. This is loud and sudden and violent. The powder zaps, lightening-like, through his brain. _Something_ is rising in his chest, a powerful wave of energy that seems set to devour him at the crescendo, and the shock of it is so intense that for a few seconds, he isn't Meg. Just long enough for him to fling out a hand and sweep the rest of the powder from the toilet lid and onto the floor, where it quickly soaks into a film of stale piss, turns yellow and clumpy. Meg is furious.

' _Do you have any idea how much that cost?_ ' Her voice is a snarl inside his head, vicious and threatening retribution.

Sam comes back at her with a _fuck you_ that doesn't sound as ferocious as he intended because his head is spinning and warmth is spreading through his limbs, cells seem to expand and float, and nothing looks real any more. Too sharp. Too shiny.

He feels his lips turn up against his will as Meg grins slyly, the muscles in his face – everywhere – beyond his control, and feels dread ripple through the high as she murmurs, ' _I have a better idea_.'

XXX

There's a needle in his arm when Meg wakes Sam up, a warm, slippery sensation rushing up his shoulder and spreading through his chest. The alleyway is hazy with the faint glow of street lights stretching their beams in a vain attempt to light up the murky shadows, and the concrete wall is cold against his back. The conflicting temperatures, the tingly feeling beginning to encompass his whole being, is so distracting that Sam does nothing to protest the use of his body for drugs.

Whatever's in the syringe – heroin, he's guessing – is different from the powder. There's no sudden rush in which he can attempt to gain control. There's only a soft, rolling wave of bliss that leaves him weak, light-headed, like his body really doesn't belong to him.

' _Thought this was more your style_ ,' Meg purrs gleefully. ' _And we have some time to kill. They say it grabs you from the very first hit_.'

 _Dean's gonna find me_ , Sam vows. Dean is looking for him right now, he knows it. He just doesn't know where he is or how far Meg's travelled since she hitched a ride inside his skin or how long it will take Dean to track him down. Dean's probably not looking for him in an alleyway frequented by junkies.

' _So what?'_ Meg sneers. ' _What d'ya think, Sammy? If I let you go, how long do you think it would be before you were scrounging around for a fix?_ '

 _Long enough to send you back to Hell_ , Sam promises. The alleyway is shimmering and he can't find the venom he wants to put into his threat. He feels like he's disintegrating.

' _Tough words_ ,' Meg says dismissively, slides the needle from his vein. ' _You, Sammy, need to learn how to relax before we get down to business. All your pushing is giving me a headache_.'

 _Just let me go_. Sam tries to sound like he's bargaining rather than pleading. _This won't end well for you._

' _Who cares about the ending when we're having this much fun?_ ' Meg drops the used syringe on the ground and pushes away from the wall, stumbles out onto the street where the lights are so bright Sam is half-blinded, and cars pass in a dizzying, endless stream, engine sounds rising and falling like music, headlights streaming like ribbons against the dark sky.

XXX

Meg makes him watch as she burns a binding symbol into his arm, makes his experience the sear of dark magic flaring hot and raw over delicate human flesh.

' _Lets see if Dean can figure this one out_ ,' Meg taunts. Sam feels his prison constrict, invisible bonds tightening and tugging him deeper below the surface, as the enchantment takes hold.

She has an endless supply of needles, syringes and dealers wherever she goes, and Sam watches her scar his veins with track marks, lets himself drift under the heavy wave of muted bliss, starts to crave it between hits, starts to hate himself for wanting it, and every passing minute makes it harder to believe in that inevitable rescue he was once so sure of.

Then Meg tracks down a hunter and makes Sam watch as she kills the man with his hands, listens while Sam screams and promises her anything he can think of if she'll just _stop, please stop, please, don't do this, just let him live_ , and she ignores him. Warm blood gushes over Sam's hands and moments later, outside the house in the garden, he's doubled over vomiting because apparently his horror is stronger than Meg is right now.

'I wonder what Dean will say when he finds out what you just did,' the demon murmurs as she straightens his spine, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and smiles.

XXX

Sam is still tacky with the hunter's blood, sticky and itchy, skin crawling, when Dean shows up and promises Meg that everything will be okay. Meg grins behind Dean's back and listens as Sam silently begs his brother to notice that something's wrong beyond the blood that stains his clothes.

 _Dean, it's not me. It's a demon, Dean, look at me, can't you tell_?

Dean's busy inspecting blood on the windowsill. Meg scratches at the track marks on Sam's arm.

XXX

Meg's scream wrenches Sam from the murky underwater prison, bringing him to the surface in time to feel the heat dance across his skin. Steam clouds his vision as Meg swipes frantically at the holy water that sizzles against his face. He can feel the demon's agony in the same detached way that Meg must sense his elation. Dean's figured it out. Dean's going to send Meg back to Hell.

' _Oh no,_ ' Meg hisses, ' _I'm not done with you yet, Sammy_.'

A window shatters as Meg throws Sam through it, heedless of the sharp bite of broken shards. Meg hits the ground running, leaving behind the voices of Dean and... Jo? Where did she come from?

Meg's working hard to push him down. Sam thinks the holy water has shocked her because, though the world blurs and blinks in and out, Sam pushes back, catches snatches of Dean's voice, Meg's taunts, and he sees it when Meg holds out the gun, sees the empty expanse of water and Dean in front of him, turning, reacting, but not fast enough. Meg's closing his finger on the trigger, and the terror that washes over him is stronger than any street drug Meg has forced on him, strong enough that at the last second, the very last second, Sam jerks his hand to the side.

It's not enough to save Dean from the bullet but he takes it in the shoulder instead of the chest. Sam hears the splash as Dean falls backwards, off the pier and into the water. He can't breathe. Meg prowls forward, stares down at the still water in triumph.

' _Guess we don't need to worry about big brother anymore_.'

XXX

 _'Just a little top up_.'

Sharp pinprick, needle point sliding neatly into the vein, a flood of warmth and hazy apathy. Sam thinks about black water spread out beneath him, swallowing his brother, and can't think of a single reason to keep fighting.

XXX

He's not expecting it when Meg surges out, his senses suddenly snapping back online as the darkness tears away, like someone's flipped a light switch in a pitch black room. The force of it leaves him sprawled on the floor, throat on fire, stomach flipping as the world spins. The sensation of his own skin is overwhelming. A dozen small slices from broken glass sting his arms and face, the puncture wounds in his forearm ache deep beneath his skin, and the binding symbol is intersected by a red-raw burn, all competing for his attention, but one thing wins out above them all.

Dean.

Sam can hear him before the room settles into place, all frantic hands and urgent demands, and Sam doesn't care that it doesn't make sense that Dean's here when Meg left him under that flat black water because _Dean is here_.

"Sammy, hey, hey, you with me? Come on, kid, hey, look at me."

It's hard, like he's not yet fully in control of his muscles, but he forces himself to focus on the dark shape before him until it turns into his brother.

Dean looks bad. There are bruises forming on his face that Sam's knows must match his own fists and the bullet wound is bleeding through Dean's shirt. Bobby's standing behind him. Are they in Bobby's house? How did he get here? Nothing makes sense.

Sam swallows, trying to gather some saliva in his suddenly dry mouth.

"Y'r alive," he manages to say, barely. His voice is shaky and slurred but, for the first time in over a week, it's really his. "I thought..."

Dean pulls him up a little so he can lean against the wall, scoffing, "Takes more than one measly bullet to stop me from coming after you, Sam." One of his hands has found Sam's face, gently prying Sam's eyelid further open. His other hand moves through Sam's hair. "Did you hit your head? Your pupils are blown."

"No, I don't..." Sam loses track of his sentence as Dean's hands continue to roam, checking him over. He hisses a vague protest when Dean's fingers press lightly against the inside of his forearm. Dean pauses.

"Wait-" Sam starts, but Dean's already pushing back his sleeve, then staring, dumbfounded, at the bruises that litter Sam's skin. Sam looks at them too, wonders vaguely how long it's been since Meg's last hit.

Dean's wide eyes flicker to Sam's face and back to his arm, speechless for a long moment.

"Heroin?" he asks finally, his voice low, face tight with concern and barely concealed rage.

Sam starts to nod but then he feels a sudden lurch in his chest, a wave of uncontrollable emotion. His throat tightens and there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop the sobs that break free. It's some kind of involuntary reflex, his body reacting to the shock of suddenly being _his_ for the first time in what feels like years. He hides his face behind his hands, embarrassed by the outburst.

"Sam..." Dean says, sounding startled, thrown by the sudden waterworks – Sam's pretty stunned himself – and desperately worried. His hand tentatively wraps around Sam's wrist but, thankfully, he doesn't try to pull it away. Sam's not sure he could stand seeing Dean or Bobby's faces right now.

"Hey, kiddo, don't worry." Dean's voice is so gentle now. He obviously thinks Sam's in shock. Sam wonders if he is in shock. Maybe he's just high. "I'm gonna get you all fixed up. It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna make this better."

Sam wants to ask if Dean's okay but he can't stop crying and he's suddenly so exhausted that he doesn't think he'd be able to wrap his tongue around the words. He wonders whether Meg let him sleep. Maybe she didn't – he doesn't ever remember lying down while she was in him – or maybe being possessed is just exhausting. He's vaguely aware of Dean asking Bobby to help get him to the couch but he's gone before he feels them move him.

To Be Continued


	2. Chapter 2

**Take Me in Your Arms**

Chapter Two

XXX

The sleeping Dean Sam wakes up to looks marginally better than the previous version. His face has blossomed into a spectacular array of purples and greens but he's showered and changed into fresh clothes. A hint of white bandage peeks out from under his shirt where the bullet wound has obviously been tended to. There's no trace of the oozing blood and Dean looks like he'll be okay, eventually. Sam lets himself breathe a sigh of relief.

Then he looks down at himself and the relief vanishes. Someone's stripped him of his button down shirt and bandaged the burnt binding symbol on his right arm but the track marks on his left are a glaring reminder that this isn't over. He feels dirty, like he's still covered in the blood of the hunter he killed, infected by Meg's presence even now that she's gone, stained from the inside out.

Sam throws off the blanket that's been tossed over him and stands, stumbling into the coffee table when his legs immediately turn to rubber beneath him. He resists the frustrated growl that wants to tear out of his throat – it's almost as if his body still isn't his – but, even though he's barely made a sound, Dean's awake and on his feet before he's fully processed what woke him. He looks around a little wildly before his eyes land on Sam.

"Hey, what are you doing up?" he asks, crossing the space between them in two steps and grabbing Sam's arm, trying to guide him back onto the couch.

"No," Sam protests, panic rising in his throat as he tugs his arm away. "No, I need- I have to take a shower."

Dean examines him for a quick moment, eyes searching, and thankfully seems to recognise that this is important. (This is _really_ important.)

"Okay," he says. "Go take a shower. I'll get you some clean clothes."

The panic's still simmering as Dean lets him go but he manages to stop himself from sprinting to the bathroom the way it's urging him to. It doesn't make sense but some desperate part of him feels like if he can just take a shower, he can somehow scrub all the memories of this from his mind, let them swirl down the drain and be erased.

Sam turns the water on as hot as it will go and leans against the sink, just for a moment, to look in the mirror. It's strange seeing himself in his eyes, almost as unrecognisable as he was when Meg was in control. He wonders, briefly, whether all victims of possession feel this... detached afterwards. Then he turns away quickly, strips off his clothes and steps under the water, banishing all thoughts of Meg from his mind.

A few minutes later, he hears the bathroom door open. Dean, bringing him clothes.

"You all right in there?" his brother asks through the shower curtain.

"Yeah, I'm-" Sam's throat closes over the word 'fine'. "Yeah."

There's a pause where it's obvious Dean wants to say something helpful but can't think what. Finally, he just says, "Okay. I brought your toothbrush and stuff."

"Thanks," Sam manages to say, in a tone that might almost be normal.

Dean hesitates a moment longer, during which Sam mentally begs him not to say anything else, not yet, and then Sam hears the bathroom door close behind his brother.

He stays in the shower until the water runs cold and then a little longer, just so he can put off facing Dean and Bobby and maybe a tiny bit because his skin still doesn't feel right and he's still hoping that the water might magically wash the _wrong_ away. Finally, he has to concede defeat.

He recognises the clothes Dean's brought him as an attempt at comfort; soft sweatpants and a light blue t-shirt Jess used to steal to sleep in sometimes, a hooded sweatshirt that covers the track marks he's trying to ignore.

It's getting harder and harder to ignore them though. They itch, there's a headache slowly forming in his temples, a growing restlessness as his body starts to tingle with anxious need. He doesn't know how long it's been since that last hit – _too long_ , his mind supplies traitorously – but he's pretty sure this feeling is only the beginning.

He steps out of the bathroom reluctantly, already missing the sanctuary of silence he'd found within. Now he has to go talk to Dean and Bobby, the idea of which brings every humiliating memory to mind. A powerful burst of hatred for Meg pulses in his chest and he has to swallow down bile that has nothing to do with withdrawal as he walks slowly down the hall.

Sam finds Dean and Bobby in the kitchen, talking quietly over coffee. He pauses in the doorway, suddenly unsure of what to say or do, and feels shame crawl up his back. He wishes he hadn't cried last night.

"Sam." Bobby notices him first. He pushes his chair back and crosses the kitchen to pull Sam into an unexpected, but not unwelcome, hug. "It's good to see you again, kid."

"It's good to see you too, Bobby," he says in return. It's true. Even though he's embarrassed, Bobby reminds him of safety, an extra level of security that right now, he kind of feels like he needs. He doesn't doubt that Bobby played an integral role in exorcising Meg.

"You up for coffee?" Bobby asks as he pulls back from the embrace to hold him at arms length and look him over. His eyes linger on Sam's arm, as if he can see the needle marks through the fabric, and his face creases deeply with concern but he only says, "I'll get some fresh bandages for that burn."

Sam nods. "Yeah, okay." He sits down beside Dean and studies the table while Bobby pours him a cup, murmuring a thanks when it's placed in front of him. Bobby goes off in search of his first aid kit and silence reigns in the kitchen. Sam takes a sip of his coffee, setting it down carefully. His hands are starting to shake.

"I'm just gonna say it," Dean says finally, decisively. "That crap Meg shot you up with has gotta be leaving your system by now, so how do you want to handle it?"

Sam stares at him uncomprehendingly. The extent of his plans ended when he decided to stop hiding in the bathroom.

"I could find some more, wean you off of it," Dean explains, sounding pained by his own suggestion. "Going cold turkey sounds like a real bitch so-"

"No," Sam cuts in. He might have no idea what to do but he's definitely not going to do that. "I don't want any more."

A shudder runs through him that makes a lie of his words. Dean pauses.

"Sammy, me and Bobby won't think any less of you. This isn't your fault," he says gently. "You don't have to do it the hard way."

"That's not..." Sam shakes his head. Maybe that's part of it but it's definitely not the main part. If he takes more, it would be like letting Meg win. "That's what she wants, Dean. I can't... I can't let her make me do what she wants anymore."

Dean takes a deep breath, searching Sam's face. Sam's not sure what his face shows but he doesn't want Dean to see it. He takes another sip of coffee as an excuse to look away.

"Okay," Dean says, sounding very much like it's not okay, but none of this is okay so Sam ignores it. "But if you change your mind-"

"Don't let me." Sam laughs a little hysterically, feeling panic bubble up against the need that's already constricting his skin. "I know you're trying to make this easier for me but... it's not going to get better until everything she put in me is gone. I need it gone, Dean."

XXX

Sam sleeps for a while after a breakfast he doesn't want that Dean practically tries to spoon-feed him, wakes up in a cold sweat that turns hot the moment he pulls the blankets up. His head aches. Dean brought his stuff in so he drags his laptop onto the bed and types in 'heroin withdrawal' before he decides that he'd rather not know and pushes it away. He's restless now that he's awake, hyper aware of the track marks itching on his arm. Traitorously, his thoughts drift to what Dean said earlier, about getting more. He'd feel better if he had more...

There's a light knock on the door and Dean pokes his head in without waiting for an answer.

"You're awake." Dean takes his consciousness as an invitation and sits down on the edge of Sam's bed. "How are you feeling?"

Sam shrugs. Dean looks him up and down.

"Kinda crappy, huh?"

"I guess," Sam confirms. The pain in his head is growing tighter, and Dean's looking at him with far too much pity. He twists his fingers in the bedsheets and tries to think of something to say that isn't _get me more, I changed my mind_.

"Do you need anything? I can get you..." Dean falters a little, "anything you want. Painkillers or something. Water?"

Sam shakes his head, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he'll tell Dean exactly what he wants.

Dean runs a hand down his face, wincing a little when his fingers brush the bruises Sam's fists put there.

"Sorry," Sam says, "about..." He gestures vaguely at the purples and greens spread over his brother's face, the bullet wound in his shoulder.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "What are you apologizing for? You had nothing to do with it."

"I know, but..." But it doesn't feel like it. Those bruises still match his knuckles, the bullet came from a gun in his hand. That hunter is still dead and Sam still remembers the warm spray of his blood.

Dean leans in closer. "It wasn't you, Sammy. Nothing that happened is on you. You know that, right?"

"I know," Sam says, because Dean will never let it go if he says anything else. Dean studies him suspiciously but thankfully drops the subject.

"You're shivering. Do you need more blankets?"

"No. I'm not cold."

"Oh." Dean casts his eyes around the room for something else to say. "Movie marathon?" he asks, gaze landing on Sam's laptop.

Sam accepts gratefully. Maybe he just needs a distraction.

XXX

Sam dozes off sometime during the second Die Hard feeling like he's coming down with a really bad 'flu and wakes up during the fourth feeling like he's been hit by a truck. Everything hurts. All his bones and muscles and joints ache and his stomach is cramping. He loses track of the movie playing in the background of his agony, loses track of everything other than the pain and the desperate desire to ask Dean for more, furious at himself for even thinking about it. He huddles down under the blankets like he has to physically restrain himself and wraps his arms around himself to try to keep from shaking.

Dean soothes him with gentle hands and soft words and the occasional vicious description of what he plans to do to Meg once he tracks her down. Sam's always been kind of amused by the way Dean can flip from tender to deadly in a heartbeat, can make a violent threat sound comforting, even if it's only empty words when it comes down to the here and now. In the here and now, it's hard to be amused but it's comforting nonetheless. It's _Dean_. Battered and a little worse for wear but here, _alive_ and with him and there's no Meg gatecrashing the party.

Just heroin.

A particularly savage cramp has him choking out a moan through gritted teeth and immediately there's a cool wash cloth against his forehead, fingers carding gently through his hair, Dean's voice.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam. You're so fucking brave, Sammy, so fucking strong. You're gonna be okay."

Sam doesn't feel brave or strong. He feels wrecked. This is worse than he thought it would be. He had hoped, because Meg hadn't been dosing him for long, that the withdrawal would be mild. Maybe this is mild compared to a long term user. Who knows? All he knows is that this is horrible. Worse than horrible. This is the worst he has ever, ever felt so far in his whole life. It feels like it will go on forever. It feels like it already has gone on forever. His teeth are chattering and his bones feel like ice, tight and brittle beneath his skin, and the worst thing about it is that he knows how to make it stop. He knows exactly what he needs to make it all go away, at least for now, and _now_ is all he can think about. _Now_ is a million different kinds of awful and he would feel so, so much better if he even had a little bit, just enough to take the edge off...

"Hey." Dean's on his knees beside the bed, his face in front of Sam's. "You can do this, Sammy. You got this. Just a little longer."

Sam shakes his head miserably. "Feels like I'm dying," he moans. He doesn't care if he's being dramatic.

"You're not dying," Dean says firmly. He grasps Sam's hand, squeezes gently. "Just getting all that crap out of your system. Then you'll be fine. It'll be over soon, I promise."

It feels like a lie. Dean promises a lot of things.

"You didn't kill me," Sam says, forcing himself to meet Dean's eye so his brother can see the accusation. "When you thought I killed that hunter, you still didn't kill me."

Dean doesn't look away. "I never thought you killed that hunter, Sam. I knew it wasn't you."

"What if it had been?" Sam whispers. What if he really does turn? What is he supposed to do if Dean won't take him out?

"It won't be." Dean sounds so certain but how can he be so sure when Sam doesn't even know? How can Dean make promises like that?

"How do you know? Dad said..."

Dean blows out a sigh, leaning back a little. He wrings the wash cloth out in the bowl of water on the night stand in what Sam can tell is a deliberate move to break eye contact. Sam lets his eyes fall closed, allowing his brother the moment he needs to gather his thoughts. Everything to do with Dad is still an open wound for Dean, one Sam tries not to poke at too much, but Dean isn't the only one with Dad's last words hanging over his head and if Dean's so sure that every thing's going to be okay then the least he can do is tell Sam _how_.

Sam opens his eyes again when he feels the wash cloth smoothing his hair back from his face, the cool water a blessed relief against the feverish heat of his skin. Dean is incredibly gentle.

"Sam, when Dad said I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn't save you."

Sam frowns. He already knows what Dad said; that Dean might have to put him down like a rabid dog. How is this helping?

Dean must see the confusion in his eyes because he sighs again, only this time he manages to make it sound like 'Sam, you're such a moron'. "If it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna save you."

END


End file.
